


See?

by AliferousRose (CatiDono)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Past Character Death, Post S3 Finale, Will the Morally Ambiguous, conflicted feelings, intense introspection, it's literally all talking and then a smoochie, talking it out, undercurrents of both murder and sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 06:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14051367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatiDono/pseuds/AliferousRose
Summary: drabble post-fall where they both survive... it's the "we crawled out of the ocean together but we haven’t run away to Europe yet so we’re slumming it in hotels for a little while" interlude before (hopefully) season 4."You played with me like a cat with a mouse, tested me against your other creations, and yet you had no tolerance to be tried yourself.”





	See?

**Author's Note:**

> Just finished S2 in my second re-watch this year (lol I have issues) and oh man. I love these boys. I wanted to have them talk about a few things that slipped by in the show... I feel like their relationship could benefit from some clearing of the air. (Also I just love characterizing them. They’re terrible to have in my head, but they just about write themselves.)

“Cassie Boyle.  You killed her for me.”

Hannibal opens his eyes but does not move.  Will isn’t looking at him; he’s staring at the ceiling of the hotel room.  The sickly fluorescent light cutting through the imperfect curtains catches his eyes and washes them to pale grey.  His face is tight, the lines around his eyes deep grooves of unease. Neither of them had been sleeping, although Hannibal had been content to pretend.  

When Hannibal doesn’t immediately respond, Will shifts as though he wants to pull himself out from underneath Hannibal’s arm but doesn’t quite dare.  His eyes cut towards Hannibal and away, dark with the shadows of nightmares.

“I told Jack that I would help you bring the killer’s face into focus,” Hannibal finally murmurs, rolling onto his side.  A gentle press of his arm against Will’s still tender ribs and Will turns willingly enough, although now that they’re staring into each other’s eyes his discomfort is more pronounced.  “That is precisely what I did.”

“You humiliated her,” Will whispers.  “Left her for the crows to pick at. Treated her worse than an animal.”

Hannibal reaches up and runs his thumb along the scar on Will’s cheek.  “To recognize what Garret Jacob Hobbs was, you first needed to realize what he was not.”

“She wouldn’t have died like that if it wasn’t for me.”  Will’s voice is barely audible, an agonized breath. His gaze is haunted, fractured by an imagination that he is hardly more in control of than the first time they had met.  Hannibal thinks he is most beautiful like this.

“You blame yourself for her death?”

“Once upon a time I would have blamed you.”  Will raises his own fingers to catch Hannibal’s hand, intercepting it before it settles against his throat.  It’s been weeks since his final, glorious becoming, but he still is wary of Hannibal. It just goes to show that his instincts are still at their peak.  “Now I’m not sure how I could have expected anything else.”

“You would not blame the wolf for hunting.”  

Will closes his eyes, but Hannibal can still see the flicker behind his lids as his eyes shift restlessly.  No doubt he sees the murder there, inside his mind, as clearly as Hannibal does in his mind palace.

“I was the one who took flesh from her, life from her.  The one who mounted her on a stag head and left her to be ridiculed by the elements.”  Hannibal is relentless, curious, as always, to see what Will is made of. He feels that he could spend years unraveling the patterns of Will’s mind and never reach the end of the weave.  The thought thrills him.

“You wouldn’t have felt the need to disrespect her like that if I had seen Hobbs clearly.”

“You say that as though the only reason she lost her life was your own ignorance.”  Hannibal can’t keep all of the disappointment out of his tone. To his surprise, Will lets out a snort of laughter, opening his eyes to regard Hannibal with something that might be called fondness in another situation.

“No, I’m sure you would have taken her anyway.  I’m not disputing the fact of her death, only the manner of presentation.  Leaving her in a forgotten field? That’s not your style. She would have been art.”

A frown crosses Hannibal’s face before he can stop it.  “Are you suggesting that art and instruction are mutually exclusive?”

“No, no.”  Will traces his fingers down Hannibal’s wrist in a manner that is somewhere between nervous and placating.  Hannibal isn’t sure which of them the touch is meant to soothe. It takes him several moments to organize his thoughts, and Hannibal waits with serene patience.  Finally, Will speaks.

“She was art, but... the perspective was forced.  So much potential wasted in a corrupted forgery. She could have been anything, and she was a mockery.”  Will’s mouth twists in distaste. “Field kabuki, that’s what I called it.”

Hannibal can’t help his soft exhalation as he finally grasps Will’s meaning. “You’re upset that she wasn’t her own creation.”  The pain in Will’s eyes as he nods slowly makes something warm twist in Hannibal’s chest.

“I hate senseless violence.”  Hannibal remains quiet despite the abrupt topic change.  He has a feeling that Will’s mind hasn’t jumped to quite so far a lily pad as it seems.  “It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just…” Will looks down at where his hand and Hannibal’s rest entwined on the sheets.  “A cacophony. The orchestra playing all at once. It hurts to look at because there was no purpose to it.” Will shifts almost imperceptibly closer, as if seeking comfort.  

“The killers Jack had me looking at, though... there was meaning.  Something they wanted to say, something only I could hear. Sometimes the music was simple, or not a tune I liked, but it was always there.”  Silence falls and Hannibal waits, hardly daring to breathe. He longs to ask what melody his work carries, to pry further into the collection of impulses that make up Will Graham.  He does not.

“Cassie Boyle could have been a song all her own, but instead she was just… a purposely inadequate cover.  And it’s my fault for not understanding the original first.”

“I had no idea you were dwelling so much on her end,” Hannibal murmurs, when it becomes clear that Will is waiting for a response.  That curious feeling is growing in his chest, something similar to admiration but far stronger. It’s quite possible that it is adoration.  The whispers through the chrysalis had worked their magic, but this creature that had emerged is far beyond anything Hannibal had expected.

“I dream about her,”  Will whispers. “And Abigail, but I don’t feel responsible for Abigail.”

“Curious.”  Hannibal follows the flow of conversation readily, willing to let the twists of Will’s mind lead him where they may.  “I thought you would hold yourself at least partially responsible.”

“Why should I?  It was your sense of righteous betrayal that killed her.”  Will brings Hannibal’s palm to his own cheek, mirroring the tender hold of their final moments in Hannibal’s Baltimore kitchen.  His gaze is so much clearer now than it was on that night, though. “You played with me like a cat with a mouse, tested me against your other creations, and yet you had no tolerance to be tried yourself.”

“You lied to me.”  Hannibal’s voice is rougher than he would like, but as he meets Will’s soft gaze he can’t seem to smooth it.  “I trusted you.”

“I trusted you first,”  Will corrects, still with that calm expression, but his eyes have a dangerous glint.  “You lied to me first, took my freedom from me first. You wanted an equal, but you didn’t know what that meant.”  Hannibal’s grip on his jaw tightens with every word, but Will is undaunted. “When you realized I had been deceiving you instead of the other way around, you lashed out.  I mourn for Abigail, but I do not hold myself responsible for the actions of a wounded wolf.” Hannibal’s eyes flash, but Will only greets his anger with a crooked smile.

“You sound like Bedelia,”  Hannibal growls, shifting so that he is leaning over Will, one hand braced on the bed, the other dropping from Will’s face to his throat.  Will rolls onto his back with the movement, still wearing that small smirk.

“Well, we did have several discussions about you before the last supper.  Maybe some of her ideas rubbed off on me.”

“I’m not sure there’s room for my old therapist between us, Will.”  Hannibal dips his head close to Will’s face, closer, until there’s barely room for a breath between them. He steals that breath, filling his lungs with the smell of Will, purely Will. Not masked by illness, or the perfume of some woman and child who had claimed him.  Just the scent of this man that Hannibal has chosen as his match. Now, later than he would have liked, Hannibal finally begins to understand what that means.

“Not with an attitude like that there isn’t,”  WIll murmurs, and brings their lips together, pressing his neck into Hannibal’s grip as he bridges the gap.  The kiss is short, sweetly innocent despite all the death between them. When they part, Will’s eyes are sparkling, the way they had on the cliff in the moonlight.  “I can’t say I was very fond of your therapist anyway.”

Hannibal ducks down to capture Will’s mouth again, feeling the curve of a smile on his lips before he pulls away.  “You are the devil, Mr. Graham.”

“What use is a devil if he doesn’t challenge one’s notions about god?”  Will replies, slightly breathless as Hannibal puts more of his weight behind the hand on Will’s neck.

“None at all,”  Hannibal agrees, that flame of adoration burning sharp behind his sternum.  For a moment he hesitates, staring down at Will, a half-formed and completely alien need to ask forgiveness lodged in his throat.  Will is watching him with knowing eyes, and before Hannibal can say anything Will wraps his arms around Hannibal and pulls him down, pressing soft, benevolent kisses on his neck and collarbones.

“I forgive you,”  Will whispers, and it’s the truest those words have ever rung between them.  

Hannibal lets out a soft noise that isn’t quite a whine but is too pleading to be a sigh, and moves his hand so he can bite a bruise onto Will’s collarbone, letting actions speak where words have uncharacteristically failed him.   Will rises to his touches, communicating in kind, and the two of them reach a new understanding, bathed in the glow of mutual adoration and the shades of the dead.

**Author's Note:**

> "reach a new understanding" is the new euphemism for banging, pass it on


End file.
